Page 122 of The Villain We Tempt

“You are a national treasure,” I whisper gratefully as she snorts a laugh and passes me the coffee.

“Anisolated incident??” Papa chokes. “This is the second murder in just a handful of months in that town!”

“No one's saying yet that it was murder, Wreckage,” Dad says gently, using his pet name for Papa that always calms him down. “That guy could’ve fallen off a boat in the Connecticut Sound for all we know.”

“Yeah, withthe heart carved into the chest,” Papa snaps. “Not to mention the slit throat and the gouged eyeballs?—”

“Roman,” Dad mutters. “C’mon.”

Papa groans. “I’m just… Are you seriouslynotworried about our?—”

“Wreckage.”

From the change in tone and the way Papa sucks in a breath of air, I’m pretty sure Dad just walked over to Papa wherever he is in the house and is now talking to him face-to-face, even though they’rebothstill on the phone with me.

“Of course I worry about our children,” Dad says gently. “I amconstantlyworried about them at school. But I also know we raised strong, confident, street-smart kids. Driving up to Hawthorne Hollow and pulling them out of school because bad shit happens in the world won’t protect them from anything. It'll only push them away.”

A smile creeps over my lips. Then I end the call and FaceTime Papa. Sure enough, they both fill the screen when the video pops up.

“Morning, Peanut,” Dad grins one his famous lopsided, charming smiles at me as he slings an arm over Papa’s broad shoulders and winks.

Papa exhales heavily, but looks calmer than he sounded a second ago. He tips his head to the side, resting it against Dad’s.

My parents are impossibly cute together. They’re the type of couple who are, at first glance, complete opposites, and yet complement each otherperfectly.

Roman Nikitin wears a full suitevery dayto work. He gets them handmade and custom tailored by a shop in London’s famous Saville Row, which means not only do they fit his gym-honed physiqueperfectly, but he also ends up looking like James Bond…if James Bond was also an Armani model.

Dad, meanwhile, is wearing a ripped Sex Pistols t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, showcasing his tattooed arms, still chiseled and heavily muscled even though he's in his late forties.

I genuinely think part of my attraction to romance books and happy ever afters comes from my parents, who have a freaking Hollywood-level love story: total opposites who were enemies before they crashed together.

Billy Joel’sViennais playing in the background now. I’m positive Dad just put it on to help calm Papa down.

And yes, I got my Billy Joel obsession along with half my genetics from my Papa.

“See?” Dad grins at me and nudges Papa with his elbow. “Does shelookworried or freaked out or in need of rescuing?” He turns and smiles before he plants a big, smacking kiss on Papa’s cheek.

Papa exhales and gives me a once-over. “No,” he mutters grudgingly.

“How say you, Peanut?Doyou need rescuing?” Dad says as he turns to me.

“Nope. I'm good,” I grin.

I am. For one, I’m firmly on team “isolated incident”, as the police are saying. But there's a second reason I’m not freaked out about the body found in town last night, and it's one I don’t plan telling anyone,leastof all Papa and Dad.

Ari’s in her room getting ready for class. I crack open the closed door on my side of the Jack-and-Jill that leads to my room and glance toward my bed.

The black mask with a white crown sprayed across the front sits on my pillow.

…Exactly where I saw it when I woke up today.

My pulse skips as heat ripples through my body.

The Ghost Prince was here.

He was here while I slept last night and lefthis masklying on the pillow next to me.

A rational person might befreaked the fuck outby that. But somehow, I feel comforted by it. Safe. Protected, I guess?